


There Go Your Hero

by madeinessos



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, erik lives with his maternal auntie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 21:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: It's 1996. Erik has been living with his maternal auntie, reading a lot of books, and wondering about heroes.





	There Go Your Hero

**Author's Note:**

> There are no heroes. In life, the monsters win.  
> \- Sansa VI, _A Game of Thrones_
> 
> Who need a hero?  
> You need a hero, look in the mirror, there go your hero  
> -Kendrick Lamar, _Pray For Me_

There was a new book on the shelves, Erik noticed.

It was big and blue. There were no creases along the jacket, and when Erik squinted at the spine he could make out the word “thrones.”

He shuffled closer in his pyjamas, careful not to make a sound. It was very early in the morning that only a pale blue light was coming through the curtains. It was also a Sunday morning, so Auntie K was home, still sleeping in her room.

The shelves were her shelves, all piled within a tall and dark brown cabinet looming in the hallway outside her room. It was stuffed full of books as if she were cramming all the books in the world in there. When Erik had first arrived here to live with her, four years ago, she’d had her hand on his shoulder as she gestured around the apartment. And Auntie K had peered down at him and told him that he could read any book from the shelves.

Carefully, Erik took the new book. Then he tiptoed to the window beside Auntie K’s door, leaned against the curtains, and started to read.

There were lots of wild stuff in this book.

But also very exciting. 

Sometimes funny, too.

There were also lots of stuff here that weren’t in the library books allowed for Erik’s age. Sometimes he wondered why. Auntie K allowed him to read anything, even stuff not for fifth grade, as long as they talked about it afterwards.

And he loved talking about the books with Auntie K. It was always fun, like the boys in his class talking about comic books with each other, except better. Auntie K was really smart and she always let Erik ask questions.

Erik shifted on the floor. Vaguely, he noticed that the curtains were now warmer and the pages were slowly turning gold. 

He was a fast reader, everyone said so. There had been one teacher in third grade who didn't believe that he’d already finished reading the short story for reading time, but Erik had answered all the teacher’s questions about it promptly and correctly.

Erik got to the part when the gentle girl’s father was executed by the king. Erik was gripping the book. 

The gentle girl screamed and cried. She wanted to be queen, and she loved fairy tales, and when she was so sad she just wanted to be alone all day and read stories. The gentle girl was Erik’s favourite.

He didn’t remember crying when he'd found Dad. 

But Erik remembered being so very sad that he felt tired. He’d wanted to sleep all day. When he’d tried to read he couldn’t concentrate. When he’d tried to play ball he couldn’t find the energy. So he’d just sat on Auntie K’s red sofa and watched her through the kitchen door, where she would be marking stacks of papers on the kitchen table. During those first few months, Auntie K had not made him talk when he didn’t want to. But every morning, before school, she had fussed with Erik’s hair, had gently squeezed his shoulder, and had told him several times to be safe and keep his head down.

The sun was fully up when Erik got to the gentle girl’s part again. She was thinking that there were no heroes. That in life, the monsters won.

The door burst open.

“Erik.”

Auntie K was putting on her glasses. She was tall and wore a wristwatch even at home.

She looked at him, glanced down at her wrist, and said, “Jesus, it’s almost ten. How long have you been up, sweetheart? Come on.”

Erik scrambled up to follow her. Auntie K always strode. There was no other word for it. He was curious to see her walk normally someday.

“Auntie K,” Erik said, trailing her to the sunlit kitchen.

“Mm?”

Auntie K was briskly opening cupboards and drawers. 

Erik looked at the apples on the counter beside her, and knew she was about to slice them for morning fruit. She put the pink bowl beside the apples, so he knew she was about to make omelets. Auntie K always used the pink bowl for whisking, Erik had noted.

Knowing these, Erik carefully put down the book on the kitchen table. Then he fetched the loaf and set about making toast.

“Auntie K,” said Erik, “do you believe in heroes?”

Auntie smiled, sprinkling salt into the bowl. “Is this for your homework essay? You can look at the index. Pick out the likely names, historical figures, and choose.”

“No, I’ve finished that.” Erik did finish his different history homework yesterday. Auntie K always reminded him to plan in advance and not procrastinate. 

“Heroes,” he said. “But like, in real life.”

“In real life,” Auntie repeated, consideringly. She tipped the beaten egg mixture into the pan. 

Erik took out a yellow plate from the drawer for the toast, and waited.

“Well,” Auntie K finally said. “There’s the firefighters. The doctors and nurses. The EMTs. Mm, what else.” She stirred at the omelet, her other hand on her hip.

“Teachers,” added Auntie K.

Erik grinned. “Like you.”

“Absolutely, why not,” she said, laughing. “I’ll slice these apples. Set the table, sweetheart.”

Auntie K was so cool, Erik thought happily as he grabbed plates and forks. She was not like most of the teachers in his school. Auntie K had a big smile and a big hair, and always had bright red lipstick. Since she was tall she kept her favourite books on the fourth shelf, and Erik had to stand on tiptoes so he could see the spines with words like “Audre” and “Walker” and “Moraga” and “Anzaldua” and “Barbara.”

One time he’d clambered onto a chair and reached for the thin Audre, because there were lots of others Audres. This one was about learning from the 1960s, before Erik was born. He’d found a small picture tucked in the last pages.

It was Mom.

In the picture Mom was beaming. There were dimples on her cheeks and a flower behind one ear. Auntie K always said that of the two of them, Mom was the shy sister. The sweet and soft-spoken one. Mom was in a crowd in this picture, and all of them were holding signs and posters.

The picture was a bit faded around the edges. At the back, in Auntie K’s sharp writing, was the name Erin.

Auntie K was turning off the stove when she said, “I meant what I said about teachers.”

“Yeah?” Erik said, and felt a little sad. “Mom was one, wasn’t she?”

“She was a lecturer, yes.”

He had seen other pictures of Mom. Not all of them showed her smiling. But in all of them, Mom's eyes were piercing through the camera, her gaze firm and forthright. In some of them she was in bigger crowds, sometimes even holding a mic and wearing a badge with the word "organizer," or else an I.D. with the words "Asst. Prof." before her name.

Erik and Auntie K sat down to eat.

“Teachers,” continued Auntie K, after she’d finished a slice of toast. “Well, at least from my point of view – they. Let’s see. Sometimes, when you look around you, you get this really strong urge to do something. Change something.”

Erik nodded to show that he was following.

“And almost always you feel alone,” Auntie K said, in her teacher voice. It was not a stuffy teacher voice, but like a grown-up Erik would want to listen to. “You feel quite helpless, and that’s a lousy feeling. How can you change something big if you’re all alone? Me, as a teacher, I teach my kids how to think. I raise issues. These kids are learning. As a teacher I try to spark curiosity and nuance in them, humanism, awareness. Maybe one day, one of them can help. Or two, or five, or fifteen. Then you’re not alone.”

Sunlight was pouring into the small kitchen in golden strokes. Erik was warm and full, and he was going over Auntie K’s words in his head. He thought he understood what she meant.

“Maybe one of them will be a teacher, too?” Erik wondered. “Then he’ll do what you did.”

“Yes.” Auntie K smiled at him. 

“Then he’ll be a hero, too.” Erik was feeling a little bit better. He grinned at Auntie K, really, really glad to be with her. Erik was fiercely glad.

“Yes,” she said, then rumpled his hair. “A real life hero.”

“So, Auntie K,” said Erik, after a beat, “last Friday I tried to read the dictionary.”

Auntie K let out a startled laugh. “Why on earth?”

Erik laughed, too. He proceeded to tell her about the kids next door who were trying to memorize the dictionary and scribble verses in their notebooks. He told her about stopping ten words into the A entries – “It’s just so boring. It’s easier to learn words when I read books –” and Auntie K was still chortling.

He’d help with the dishes, then in the afternoon he would finish the book. The gentle girl was not quite right. But she was young, the same age as Erik, and he almost wished she had her own Auntie K.

Auntie K was the only one he had left.

Erik would do his best to follow Auntie K's reminders, he promised himself there in the kitchen. Erik was stacking their dirty dishes and Auntie K had strode over to the counter to turn on the radio. The kitchen tiles had stripes of hot gold sunlight from the fluttering curtains. And Erik had the rest of the day ahead of him. 

He would follow Auntie K’s reminders: always plan ahead, do not procrastinate, be safe and keep his head down.

He’d always wondered about the last one. Auntie K had told him she would explain one day, but he supposed that it meant to keep his head down to be safe. Dad had not been safe, and Erik wanted to be safe long enough to keep living. After all, Erik might be a hero one day. Who knew?

_fin_


End file.
